The Wednesday Wars

The Wednesday Wars

4.2 265
by Gary D. Schmidt

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In this Newbery Honor-winning novel, Gary D. Schmidt offers an unforgettable antihero. The Wednesday Wars is a wonderfully witty and compelling story about a teenage boy’s mishaps and adventures over the course of the 1967–68 school year in Long Island, New York.

Meet Holling Hoodhood, a seventh-grader at Camillo Junior High, who must

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In this Newbery Honor-winning novel, Gary D. Schmidt offers an unforgettable antihero. The Wednesday Wars is a wonderfully witty and compelling story about a teenage boy’s mishaps and adventures over the course of the 1967–68 school year in Long Island, New York.

Meet Holling Hoodhood, a seventh-grader at Camillo Junior High, who must spend Wednesday afternoons with his teacher, Mrs. Baker, while the rest of the class has religious instruction. Mrs. Baker doesn’t like Holling—he’s sure of it. Why else would she make him read the plays of William Shakespeare outside class? But everyone has bigger things to worry about, like Vietnam. His father wants Holling and his sister to be on their best behavior: the success of his business depends on it. But how can Holling stay out of trouble when he has so much to contend with? A bully demanding cream puffs; angry rats; and a baseball hero signing autographs the very same night Holling has to appear in a play in yellow tights! As fate sneaks up on him again and again, Holling finds Motivation—the Big M—in the most unexpected places and musters up the courage to embrace his destiny, in spite of himself.

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Editorial Reviews

While all his classmates are enjoying (?) religious instruction, seventh-grader Holling Hoodhood shares Wednesday afternoons with Mrs. Baker, his Camillo Junior High teacher. Not surprisingly, Holling lacks enthusiasm for mid-week appointments with an instructor who assigns him Shakespeare as out-of-class reading. Holling has other things on his mind besides English Renaissance drama. For his dad's sake, he's trying hard to stay out of trouble, but with hovering bullies and other impinging crises, that seems to be a full-time job. Fortunately, help arrives from an unexpected source. Another funny yet gripping novel from the author of Lizzie Bright and The Buckminster Boy.

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Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
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Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
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990L (what's this?)
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2 MB
Age Range:
10 - 12 Years

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Of all the kids in the seventh grade at Camillo Junior High, there was one kid that Mrs. Baker hated with heat whiter than the sun. Me.
And let me tell you, it wasn’t for anything I’d done.
If it had been Doug Swieteck that Mrs.
Baker hated, it would have made sense. Doug Swieteck once made up a list of 410 ways to get a teacher to hate you. It began with “Spray deodorant in all her desk drawers” and got worse as it went along. A whole lot worse. I think that things became illegal around Number 167.
You don’t want to know what Number 400 was, and you really don’t want to know what Number 410 was. But I’ll tell you this much: They were the kinds of things that sent kids to juvenile detention homes in upstate New York, so far away that you never saw them again. Doug Swieteck tried Number 6 on Mrs.
Sidman last year. It was something about Wrigley gum and the teachers’ water fountain (which was just outside the teachers’ lounge) and the Polynesian Fruit Blend hair coloring that Mrs.
Sidman used. It worked, and streams of juice the color of mangoes stained her face for the rest of the day, and the next day, and the next day—until, I suppose, those skin cells wore off.
Doug Swieteck was suspended for two whole weeks. Just before he left, he said that next year he was going to try Number 166 to see how much time that would get him.
The day before Doug Swieteck came back, our principal reported during Morning Announcements that Mrs. Sidman had accepted “voluntary reassignment to the Main Administrative Office.” We were all supposed to congratulate her on the new post. But it was hard to congratulate her because she almost never peeked out of the Main Administrative Office. Even when she had to be the playground monitor during recess, she mostly kept away from us. If you did get close, she’d whip out a plastic rain hat and pull it on.
It’s hard to congratulate someone who’s holding a plastic rain hat over her Polynesian Fruit Blend–colored hair.
See? That’s the kind of stuff that gets teachers to hate you. But the thing was, I never did any of that stuff. Never. I even stayed as far away from Doug Swieteck as I could, so if he did decide to try Number 166 on anyone, I wouldn’t get blamed for standing nearby.
But it didn’t matter. Mrs. Baker hated me. She hated me a whole lot worse than Mrs. Sidman hated Doug Swieteck. I knew it on Monday, the first day of seventh grade, when she called the class roll—which told you not only who was in the class but also where everyone lived.
If your last name ended in “berg” or “zog” or “stein,” you lived on the north side. If your last name ended in “elli” or “ini” or “o,” you lived on the south side. Lee Avenue cut right between them, and if you walked out of Camillo Junior High and followed Lee Avenue across Main Street, past MacClean’s Drug Store, Goldman’s Best Bakery, and the Five & Ten-Cent Store, through another block and past the Free Public Library, and down one more block, you’d come to my house—which my father had figured out was right smack in the middle of town.
Not on the north side. Not on the south side. Just somewhere in between. “It’s the Perfect House,” he said.
But perfect or not, it was hard living in between. On Saturday morning, everyone north of us was at Temple Beth-El. Late on Saturday afternoon, everyone south of us was at mass at Saint Adelbert’s—which had gone modern and figured that it didn’t need to wake parishioners up early. But on Sunday morning—early—my family was at Saint Andrew Presbyterian Church listening to Pastor McClellan, who was old enough to have known Moses. This meant that out of the whole weekend there was only Sunday afternoon left over for full baseball teams.
This hadn’t been too much of a disaster up until now. But last summer, Ben Cummings moved to Connecticut so his father could work in Groton, and Ian MacAlister moved to Biloxi so his father could be a chaplain at the base there instead of the pastor at Saint Andrew’s—which is why we ended up with Pastor McClellan, who could have called Isaiah a personal friend, too. So being a Presbyterian was now a disaster. Especially on Wednesday afternoons when, at 1:45 sharp, half of my class went to Hebrew School at Temple Beth-El, and, at 1:55, the other half went to Catechism at Saint Adelbert’s.
This left behind just the Presbyterians—of which there had been three, and now there was one.
I think Mrs. Baker suspected this when she came to my name on the class roll.
Her voice got kind of crackly, like there was a secret code in the static underneath it.
“Holling Hoodhood,” she said.
“Here.” I raised my hand.
“Hoodhood.” “Yes.” Mrs. Baker sat on the edge of her desk.
This should have sent me some kind of message, since teacherss areeeen’t supposed to sit on the edge of their desks on the first day of classes. There’s a rule about that.
“Hoodhood,” she said quietly. She thought for a moment. “Does your family attend Temple Beth-El?” she said.
I shook my head.
“Saint Adelbert’s, then?” She asked this kind of hopefully.
I shook my head again.
“So on Wednesday afternoon you attend neither Hebrew School nor Catechism.” I nodded.
“You are here with me.” “I guess,” I said.
Mrs. Baker looked hard at me. I think she rolled her eyes. “Since the mutilation of “to guess” into an intransitive verb is a crime against the language, perhaps you might wish a full sentence to avoid prosecution-—something such as, ‘I guess that Wednesday afternoons will be busy after all.’”

That’s when I knew that she hated me. This look came over her face like the sun had winked out and was not going to shine again until June.
And probably that’s the same look that came over my face, since I felt the way you feel just before you throw up—cold and sweaty at the same time, and your stomach’s doing things that stomachs aren’t supposed to do, and you’re wishing—you’re really wishing—that the ham and cheese and broccoli omelet that your mother made for you for the first day of school had been Cheerios, like you really wanted, because they come up a whole lot easier, and not yellow.
If Mrs. Baker was feeling like she was going to throw up too, she didn’t show it. She looked down at the class roll.
“Mai Thi Huong,” she called. She looked up to find Mai Thi’s raised hand, and nodded. But before she looked down, Mrs.
Baker looked at me again, and this time her eyes really did roll. Then she looked down again at the roll. “Daniel Hupfer,” she called, and she looked up to find Danny’s raised hand, and then she turned to look at me again. “Meryl Lee Kowalski,” she called. She found Meryl Lee’s hand, and looked at me again. She did this every time she looked up to find somebody’s hand. She was watching me because she hated my guts.

I walked back to the Perfect House slowly that afternoon. I could always tell when I got there without looking up, because the sidewalk changed.
Suddenly, all the cement squares were perfectly white, and none of them had a single crack. Not one. This was also true of the cement squares of the walkway leading up to the Perfect House, which were bordered by perfectly matching azalea bushes, all the same height, alternating between pink and white blossoms. The cement squares and azaleas stopped at the perfect stoop—three steps, like every other stoop on the block—and then you’re up to the two-story colonial, with two windows on each side, and two dormers on the second floor. It was like every other house on the block, except neater, because my father had it painted perfectly white every other year, except for the fake aluminum shutters, which were painted black, and the aluminum screen door, which gleamed dully and never, ever squeaked when you opened it.
Inside, I dropped my books on the stairs. “Mom,” I called.
I thought about getting something to eat. A Twinkie, maybe. Then chocolate milk that had more chocolate than milk.
And then another Twinkie. After all that sugar, I figured I’d be able to come up with something on how to live with Mrs.
Baker for nine months. Either that or I wouldn’t care anymore.
“Mom,” I called again.
I walked past the Perfect Living Room, where no one ever sat because all the seat cushions were covered in stiff, clear plastic. You could walk in there and think that everything was for sale, it was so perfect. The carpet looked like it had never been walked on—which it almost hadn’t—and the baby grand by the window looked like it had never been played—which it hadn’t, since none of us could. But if anyone had ever walked in and plinked a key or sniffed the artificial tropical flowers or straightened a tie in the gleaming mirror, they sure would have been impressed at the perfect life of an architect from Hoodhood and Associates.
My mother was in the kitchen, fanning air out the open window and putting out a cigarette, because I wasn’t supposed to know that she smoked, and if I did know, I wasn’t supposed to say anything, and I really wasn’t supposed to tell my father.
And that’s when it came to me, even before the Twinkie.
I needed to have an ally in the war against Mrs. Baker.
“How was your first day?” my mother said. “Mom,” I said, “Mrs. Baker hates my guts.” “Mrs. Baker doesn’t hate your guts.” She stopped fanning and closed the window.
“Yes, she does.” “Mrs. Baker hardly knows you.” “Mom, it’s not like you have to know someone well to hate their guts. You don’t sit around and have a long conversation and then decide whether or not to hate their guts. You just do. And she does.” “I’m sure that Mrs. Baker is a fine person, and she certainly does not hate your guts.” How do parents get to where they can say things like this? There must be some gene that switches on at the birth of the firstborn child, and suddenly stuff like that starts to come out of their mouths. It’s like they haven’t figured out that the language you’re using is English and they should be able to understand what you’re saying. Instead, you pull a string on them, and a bad record plays.
I guess they can’t help it.

Right after supper, I went to the den to look for a new ally.
“Dad, Mrs. Baker hates my guts.” “Can you see that the television is on and that I’m watching Walter Cronkite?” he said.
We listened to Walter Cronkite report on the new casualty figures from Vietnam, and how the air war was being widened, and how two new brigades of the 101st Airborne Division were being sent over, until CBS finally threw in a commercial.
“Dad, Mrs. Baker hates my guts.” “What did you do?” “I didn’t do anything. She just hates my guts.” “People don’t just hate your guts unless you do something to them. So what did you do?” “Nothing.” “This is Betty Baker, right?” “I guess.” “The Betty Baker who belongs to the Baker family.” See what I mean about that gene thing?
They miss the entire point of what you’re saying.
“I guess she belongs to the Baker family,” I said.
“The Baker family that owns the Baker Sporting Emporium.” “Dad, she hates my guts.” “The Baker Sporting Emporium, which is about to choose an architect for its new building and which is considering Hoodhood and Associates among its top three choices.” “Dad . . .” “So, Holling, what did you do that might make Mrs. Baker hate your guts, which will make other Baker family members hate the name of Hoodhood, which will lead the Baker Sporting Emporium to choose another architect, which will kill the deal for Hoodhood and Associates, which will drive us into bankruptcy, which will encourage several lending institutions around the state to send representatives to our front stoop holding papers that have lots of legal words on them—none of them good—and which will mean that there will be no Hoodhood and Associates for you to take over when I’m ready to retire?” Even though there wasn’t much left of the ham and cheese and broccoli omelet, it started to want to come up again. “I guess things aren’t so bad,” I said.
“Keep them that way,” he said.
This wasn’t exactly what I had hoped for in an ally.

There was only my sister left. To ask your big sister to be your ally is like asking Nova Scotia to go into battle with you.
But I knocked on her door anyway.
Loudly, since the Monkees were playing.
She pulled it open and stood there, her hands on her hips. Her lipstick was the color of a new fire engine.
“Mrs. Baker hates my guts,” I told her.
“So do I,” she said.
“I could use some help with this.” “Ask Mom.” “She says that Mrs. Baker doesn’t hate my guts.” “Ask Dad.” Silence—if you call it silence when the Monkees are playing.
“Oh,” she said. “It might hurt a business deal, right? So he won’t help the Son Who is Going to Inherit Hoodhood and Associates.” “What am I supposed to do?” “If I were you, I’d head to California,” she said.
“Try again.” She leaned against her door. “Mrs.
Baker hates your guts, right?” I nodded.
“Then, Holling, you might try getting some.” And she closed her door.

That night, I read Treasure Island again, and I don’t want to brag, but I’ve read Treasure Island four times and Kidnapped twice and The Black Arrow twice. I even read Ivanhoe halfway through before I gave up, since I started The Call of the Wild and it was a whole lot better. I skipped to the part where Jim Hawkins is stealing the Hispaniola and he’s up on the mast and Israel Hands is climbing toward him, clutching a dagger. Even so, Jim’s in pretty good shape, since he’s got two pistols against a single dagger, and Israel Hands seems about to give in.
“I’ll have to strike, which comes hard,” he says. I suppose he hates Jim’s guts right at that moment. And Jim smiles, since he knows he’s got him. That’s guts.
But then Israel Hands throws the dagger, and it’s just dumb luck that saves Jim.
And I didn’t want to count on just dumb luck.

Mrs. Baker eyed me all day on Tuesday, looking like she wanted something awful to happen—sort of like what Israel Hands wanted to happen to Jim Hawkins. It started first thing in the morning, when I caught her watching me come out of the Coat Room and walk toward my desk.
By the way, if you’re wondering why a seventh-grade classroom had a Coat Room, it isn’t because we weren’t old enough to have lockers. It’s because Camillo Junior High used to be Camillo Elementary until the town built a new Camillo Elementary and attached it to the old Camillo Elementary by the kitchen hallway and then made the old Camillo Elementary into the new Camillo Junior High. So all the rooms on the third floor where the seventh grade was had Coat Rooms. That’s where we put our stuff—even though it was 1967 already, and we should have had hall lockers, like every other seventh grade in the civilized world.
So I caught Mrs. Baker watching me come out of the Coat Room and walk toward my desk. She leaned forward, as if she was looking for something in her desk. It was creepy.
But just before I sat down, I figured it out: She’d booby-trapped my desk—like Captain Flint would have. It all came to me in a sort of vision, the kind of thing that Pastor McClellan had sometimes talked about, how God sends a message to you just before some disaster, and if you listen, you stay alive. But if you don’t, you don’t. I looked at my desk. I didn’t see any trip wires, so probably there weren’t any explosives. I checked the screws.
They were all still in, so it wouldn’t fall flat when I sat down.
Maybe there was something inside.
Something terrible inside. Something really awful inside. Something left over from the seventh-grade biology labs last spring. I looked at Mrs. Baker again. She had looked away, a half-smile on her lips.
Really. Talk about guilt.
So I asked Meryl Lee Kowalski, who has been in love with me since she first laid eyes on me in the third grade—I’m just saying what she told me—I asked her to open my desk first.
“How come?” she said. Sometimes even true love can be suspicious.
“Just because.” “‘Just because’ isn’t much of a reason.” “Just because there might be a surprise.” “For who?” “For you.” “For me?” “For you.” She lifted the desk top. She looked under English for You and Me, Mathematics for You and Me, and Geography for You and Me. “I don’t see anything,” she said.
I looked inside. “Maybe I was wrong.” “Maybe I was wrong,” said Meryl Lee, and dropped the desk top. Loudly. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry. I was supposed to wait until you put your fingers there.” Love and hate in seventh grade are not far apart, let me tell you.

At lunchtime, I was afraid to go out for recess, since I figured that Mrs. Baker had probably recruited an eighth-grader to do something awful to me. There was Doug Swieteck’s brother, for one, who was already shaving and had been to three police stations in two states and who once spent a night in jail. No one knew what for, but I thought it might be for something in the Number 390s—or maybe even Number 410 itself! Doug Swieteck said that if his father hadn’t bribed the judge, his brother would have been on Death Row.
We all believed him.
“Why don’t you go out for lunch recess?” said Mrs. Baker to me.
“Everyone else is gone.” I held up English for You and Me. “I thought I’d read in here,” I said.
“Go out for recess,” she said, criminal intent gleaming in her eyes.
“I’m comfortable here.” “Mr. Hoodhood,” she said. She stood up and crossed her arms, and I realized I was alone in the room with no witnesses and no mast to climb to get away.
I went out for recess.
I kept a perimeter of about ten feet or so around me, and stayed in Mrs.
Sidman’s line of sight. I almost asked for her rain hat. You never know what might come in handy when something awful is about to happen to you.
Then, as if the Dread Day of Doom and Disaster had come to Camillo Junior High, I heard, “Hey, Hoodhood!” It was Doug Swieteck’s brother. He entered my perimeter.
I took three steps closer to Mrs.
Sidman. She moved away and held her rain hat firmly.
“Hoodhood—you play soccer? We need another guy.” Doug Swieteck’s brother was moving toward me. The hair on his chest leaped over the neck of his T-shirt.
“Go ahead,” called the helpful Mrs.
Sidman from a distance. “If you don’t play, someone will have to sit out.” If I don’t play, I’ll live another day, I thought.
“Hoodhood,” said Doug Swieteck’s brother, “you coming or not?” What could I do? It was like walking into my own destiny.

Copyright © 2007 by Gary D. Schmidt.
Reprinted by permission of Clarion Books / Houghton Mifflin Company.

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What People are saying about this

From the Publisher
"Schmidt, whose LIZZIE BRIGHT AND THE BUCKMINSTER BOY won both Printz and Newbery Honors, delivers another winner...deeply satisfying." Publishers Weekly, Starred

"Schmidt ... [gets] to the emotional heart of every scene without overstatement ... another virtuoso turn by the author of LIZZIE BRIGHT." Kirkus Reviews, Starred

"Schmidt...makes the implausible believable and the everyday momentous...a gentle, hopeful, moving story." Booklist, ALA, Starred Review

"Schmidt rises above the novel's conventions to create memorable and believable characters." Horn Book, Starred

"[An] entertaining and nuanced novel.... There are laugh-out-loud moments that leaven the many poignant ones." School Library Journal

"An accessible, humorous school story, and at the same time, an insightful coming-of-age tale." Bookpage

"Fans of ... LIZZIE BRIGHT AND THE BUCKMINSTER BOY may be pleasantly surprised to see Schmidt's lighter, even sillier side." Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books

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The Wednesday Wars 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 265 reviews.
JZlovesbooks More than 1 year ago
The wednesday wars is a mixture of love/comdedy/shakespeare/life lessons.
this is definetly on my list of top 5 books.there were times in the book that had me laughing so hard.the characters were wonderful.if you like a book that will make you laugh and cry at the same time please read the wednesday wars.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Very good book and it taught me that you won't always have good days
jadaykennedy More than 1 year ago
How many times have you thought a teacher designed her assignments as an attempt to torture you? Holling is certain Mrs.' Baker has this agenda. Maybe there were times she did in the beginning, but secretly he ended up enjoying working with her one-on-one. In fact he learns his teacher is almost human. Set in the turbulent 1960's the book throws readers into the era of flower children, Vietnam, Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy's assassination. The book lacks the umph factor to grab the reluctant reader, but children that enjoy a bit of history in their fiction and adults that grew up during this time will appreciate how Schmidt seams the two together. The humor and cultural tidbits alone make me happy to highly recommend this book. Newbery Honor Book. 2007
Julie Ann Benison More than 1 year ago
I have thoroughly enjoyed reading this to my middle-school kids. My daughter is reading Shakespeare (story form) because she loves this book so much. It might be a perfect book. It certainly will be a family favorite.
Zanto More than 1 year ago
My favorite book (thats why i gave it 5 stars)! But if you're going to buy it, don't take my word for it. I'm only 12.
AmyCCBYU More than 1 year ago
The Wednesday Wars is an insightful and entertaining young adult novel. It follows the story of Holling Hoodhood, a boy in seventh grade in 1967. He is crushed to discover that he has to study Shakespeare with his teacher, Mrs. Baker, every Wednesday. She insists on having him read some of his greatest plays, such as The Tempest, Romeo and Juliet, and Hamlet. With each reading, Hoodhood discovers that they are not old and boring. They provide him with insight on life. The Tempest offers some choice curses that he uses against an intimidating eighth grader. Romeo gives him advice on love, which he uses to woo his crush, Meryl Lee. The author, Gary Schmidt, constructs a quick and fun read that reminds the reader that Shakespeare knew how to create relatable and perceptive characters. Schmidt also explores the time period of the late sixties and shows the reader how the Vietnam War must have seemed to a seventh grade boy. Hoodhood's sister decides she wants to be a flower child, and their entire family watches the devastation of Vietnam on the television every night. He even has a Vietnamese friend at school that receives harsh treatment. With unexpected turns and twists, this novel teaches the reader while providing them with a fun read. I truly enjoyed reading this novel, and it is one that I would highly recommend for individuals of any age. It reminds you of what it is like to be a kid, with the excitement of rats on the loose at school and the embarrassment of being in a school play. It also gives a new look on the idea of war, politics, love, and business by having a young boy relate the events. Schmidt is an excellent writer, and I love this book. As I am currently studying to become a secondary English teacher, I feel that this would be a perfect book for junior high students. It may even give them an appreciation for Shakespeare.
Kidzmom More than 1 year ago
This book was a good book for Young Adult readers. I liked that the boy related Shakespeare to life. I liked the compassion from his teacher along with high expectations. It was a very positive portrayal of the characters. Even his parents came off better than they should have.
Living_Water More than 1 year ago
I laughed,rolled my eyes (in a way of of familiarity of the situations),felt pity all while reading the Wednesday Wars. I love this book because it's very much the same to the things we encounter today unless your older sister claims she's a flower child.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I like it
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book was amazing. The author has a great sense of humor and it is still funny today even though it was written a long time ago. The book is also very heartwarming, especially the parts about his sister later on in the book. Definitely one of my favorites.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The book is very interesting and good. My favorite part is when Holling's class gets to eat cream puffs.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Epic greatness
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
U guys shiuldnt hate
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is such a good book for early teens. Not only are the characters relatable(especially Holling), but there are a lot of subjects in the book that can lead to other interests outside of this books....such as the Vietnam War, Bobby Kennedy, the riots at Columbia University, and Shakespeare. It's a bit heavy at times, but the humor in it balances it out.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
i finished the book (my comment is below) amd it was awesome!!! i couldnt put it down!! YAAAAY!!! :P -Lauren
Bhanu Veragur More than 1 year ago
I love this book and everybody will too. It has a lot of baseball, even though I do not play it, I love the book
runningtalon More than 1 year ago
you will probably like this
Allison Murray More than 1 year ago
holling discovers his true self in this book
Communism More than 1 year ago
I read this book when I was is 7th grade and absolutely loved it. I reread it when I was in 10th and it's still one of my favorite books!
Book_Worm_1998 More than 1 year ago
I like that this book takes place in the late 60's, and a lot of the events are ones that I have learned about. Every Wednesday afternoon, he has to stay at school with his teacher, while other kids go to church. This is when Holling reads poems by Shakespeare, which his teacher thinks will bore him to death. Holling's thoughts and feelings change when he reads famous poems by Shakespeare. He can relate to Romeo and Juliet because of a girl named Meryl Lee, and he starts to think about things in relation to poems by Shakespeare. Great Book!
Anonymous 10 months ago
This book is very boring and is not funny at all (also very long)
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Life is tough during the Vietnam War, especially for the kid who stays after school on Wednesdays......... Holling Hoodhood is a Protestant. That means on Wednesday afternoons, when the Jewish go to Hebrew school and the Catholics go to catechism, he's stuck reading Shakespeare with his teacher Mrs. Baker, whom Holling is convinced hates him. Just when Holling realizes the middle school is actually not bad, he finds that life can get crazy. Filled with cream puffs, roses(particularly for Marilee Kowalski), two psycho rats in the ceiling, family weirdness, and bright yellow tights with feathers on the you-know-where, the Wednesday Wars is a story everyone will love.
bbb57 More than 1 year ago
Why this is considered a children's book I will never understand. This is such a treat of a book, as much as "Okay For Now" which is another great read. It should be mandatory reading for every parent AND teacher. Never EVER underestimate the intelligence of a youngster. They think, they feel, they express themselves. Adults have to learn how to listen. Period. A best book of the year for me.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I liked this book a lot an thought it was amazing. This book is funny, entertaining, and realistic. I gave it 4 stars because most of the book was good but I thought the beginning was quite boring. It is mostly about Holling, his friends, and his trobles at school. It takes place in 1967 and 68. I wold recommend this book to anyone who is looking for a good historical fiction book.